Suspicion
by absolutelycancerous
Summary: She didn't want, couldn't handle, him being like all the rest.


Soul comes home smelling of cigarettes—the scent of her father—and she screams and hits and hisses and cries at him for just that. The cigarettes make her think of her parents screaming in the next room over, of nights where Papa slept on the couch and she trotted out into the kitchen to see him putting out a smoking stub before smiling tiredly and asking if his little girl needs help reaching the bowls in the cupboard, of lies of her father's love.

Soul quits, he says, but he still comes home with the leather coat on his back smelling of stale smoke and silent apologies, his fingers smelling of burnt paper and his lips of nicotine.

She isn't sure why she kisses him those nights, anyway.

.

He stops coming home on time, stays out late and away from her. Won't answer texts, won't pick up calls. She's seen this before, has seen her mother dial numbers as she paced around the kitchen, eventually screaming into the phone at his voicemail, asking just how good is the whore he's fucking, good enough to take your daughter away, you sick scum? Maka listened, sat rubbing her legs nervously and listened. This was not the sound of yelling, it was the sound of a family shattering.

When he does come home, looking exhausted, like her father had so many nights of her young life, she spits on him, cries at him, tells him not to come into her room, because she doesn't share a bed with scum like him. Soul never says anything to defend himself, so very _unlike_ her Papa, and Maka doesn't know if it's because he's shamed by his acts, or if there are any acts to even accuse him of.

She goes to bed alone, and sometimes presses her hands together in prayers, asking God or whoever pulls the strings around her small world if they can make Soul be the one guy who doesn't ruin her. She's never been religious—she hopes that doesn't muck up the whole "praying" thing.

.

He comes home and tells her she needs to sit down; Maka knows what this is. She remembers from her childhood, where her Papa sat her Mama down at the kitchen table (just as Soul is doing now with her) and held her hand, pleaded and pleaded for it to not end this way, they were still in love, they still had a chance! Maka feels like she could hyperventilate or choke on her own breath.

Soul kneels in front of her, holds her hand just like how she remembers it. She tells herself she's not going to cry, that she's going to break up with him and move away to Guam and become a nurse and forget about him and his stupid, loving eyes and his long fingers and his careful voice—

He just looks at her, and then, he pulls something out of his pocket. It looks like a chocolate, but it turns out to be a small box, one that's smaller than his palm, than her palm, too. She watches him open it, watches the ring shine inside. It's nothing she's seen other ladies with, there's only one stone in the middle of a silver band, small in size and heart-stopping in its meaning.

"Please."

He doesn't say what he's begging for, but he's _begging_. It breaks her heart, his eyes are watering.

"_Please_. Please."

He smelled like cigarettes because _he was probably with her father_, probably asking about all _this_, probably begging like he is now to gain his blessing, to gain permission to have her and love her like he's done for the past years and will always continue to do. He stayed out late to do this for her, took time from his life to pour into make just this one moment, and many others, as perfect as he can for her.

He's crying, it's as uncool at it sounds, but he's scared and he can't handle rejection, not on this big a scale. Maka cries, too, leans over to press her forehead to his and let her tears fall to his cheeks. She was awful to him, she _spit_ on him, she called him _scum_. And all he was guilty of was _wanting to __**marry**__**her**_.

Soul sniffs, forgets what the word "cool" even is, pulls the ring from its happy nook and takes her right hand, then takes her left and laughs though his tears; he's a moron, he hopes she's okay with that. The ring slides on, and he presses his lips to it, holds his face to her lap and tries not to make those disgusting crying sounds that are not unlike a small child weeping into their mother's dress. She kisses the top of his head, sobs that she's sorry, that he can keep smoking if that's what he enjoys and staying out late if he needs to, she won't get mad anymore and he'll always be welcome in her bed with her.

"No," he tells her, sniffing again as he looks to her face. He wears a smile, not a smirk, not a grin, a smile, and he's not tired or upset or anything, just doing exactly that, smiling at her from down on his knees before her.

"I just want you."

She sobs (happily!).

"So you're not really a smoker?" Maka asks as she wipes her eyes and nose, and watches Soul make disgusting faces that make her laugh as he explains no, her father had the audacity to stuff one in his mouth, stating only real men can have a conversation over a smoke—like it were a right of goddamn passage.

She loves him, _god_, she loves him.


End file.
